


Strangeways, Here We Come

by ChemFishee



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 2010 Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:06:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChemFishee/pseuds/ChemFishee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad’s skin is itchy with the lassitude of routine.<br/>(February 2010)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangeways, Here We Come

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Smith's album of the same name.  
> (Comment!Fic originally posted [here](http://chemfishee.livejournal.com/163928.html?thread=1653848#t1653848).)

It’s one of those days where the rain is too much for the bike because, despite actively avoiding bullets and mortars for a living, Brad Colbert doesn’t have a death wish, thank you very much. He’s tired of staring at code, and when that gets to be too much eye strain, focusing on the chipped dry wall to the left of the desk. Ray still swears he tripped into the wall one night after being scandalized at the sheer volumes of internet porn he found on Brad’s computer. Brad knows it’s a lie because 1) he found the relatively fresh beer stains on the carpet when he moved the fern his sister insisted stay at his place after her oldest kid tried to eat the dirt one too many times and 2) Ray sent him most of the porn.

Brad’s skin is itchy with the lassitude of routine. He grabs the keys to the car he still hasn’t been able to convince himself is more of a hassle than a convenience and is out the door with no real destination in mind. Aimless driving around a modern-day Garden of Eden. Life’s cruel ironies curl a smirk across Brad’s lips as he points the car north, feeling the tension slowly melt across his shoulders.

Brad still hasn’t learned to ride in an enclosed vehicle – plane, train or automobile – without background noise. Twenty minutes into the trip, he turns the radio on, flipping to the CD option before some goat-fucked DJ getting paid to fake her orgiastic enthusiasm for the latest single from some American Idol reject has a chance to infest his ears. It takes until the fourth song for him to remember what CD he’s listening to, but by that time, he’s keeping rhythm on the steering wheel. He catches himself looking to the passenger side, twice, before he realizes that Ray isn’t there to play keyboards.

 

-

 

The disc has cycled through once already and is heading for a jubilant rendition of the second half when Brad pulls into the driveway. The sun peeled back the clouds somewhere outside of Santa Ana. Brad had rolled down his window, turned up the volume and dug his sunglasses out of the center console.

He sits in the car, letting the song finish before crawling out to stretch to full height. He feels loose, almost gangly.

Before he can knock on the security door, a voice from inside yells, “¡Pasma hijo de puta! O nunca le dará a madre a cholitos.”

The door is nearly ripped from its hinges. Brad merely raises an eyebrow at the handgun Poke has pointed squarely at his thighs. He supposes it would be around ball-height on anyone who couldn’t double as a jungle gym. “Still don’t speak Mexican, Poke.”

The safety clicks into place. “Yo, chingaoer.* I thought you were this cholo that’s been all up in here after Isa with that music you got pouring outta shitty speakers, dawg.”

“Did you hear La Cucaracha?”

“Actually, it was the sound system that gave you away.” Brad scoffs at that. “Want a beer, man?”

Brad smiles, molasses slow and easy. “Yeah. That’d be good.”

-

The sun is setting by the time he’s back on the 5, humming tunelessly along to the muted radio.


End file.
